First Interrogation
by EvenAtMyDarkest
Summary: "And this was how he came to be the sole keeper of the Pie-maker's secret." Emerson and Ned's first conversation. I do not own Pushing Daisies.


When Emerson Cod came down from the roof, the man in the apron had disappeared. But it wasn't hard to guess where he'd gone.

He barged straight into the pie shop. It was mostly quiet, with only one table occupied. There was a young blonde manning the counter. Even if Emerson hadn't been an investigator who had spent a lot of time honing his powers of observation, it wasn't hard to spot a flash of brown hair ducking into the kitchen behind her.

"You," he said loudly, striding forward. No response. "Come on, I saw you, get out here now."

Again, he was not graced with a reply. He started to circle around the counter, but was stopped when the blonde woman stood up—which actually lessened her height, as it turned out to be a pretty tall stool her short self had been seated on—and said belligerently, "Hey, what's the big idea?"

Accompanied by the words "I've got a few questions," Emerson flashed his badge, and rapidly returned it to his pocket, the motions familiar. The blonde stood there blinking for a moment before turning to face the kitchen. "Ned?" she asked uncertainly.

Emerson, done with this crap, brushed past her and entered the kitchen.

The young man in the apron stumbled backwards frantically, keeping his eyes on Emerson as if he were an animal trapped in a cage with him. "Don't look at me like that," Emerson said, trying to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

There was a pause, during which it became evident that the entire restaurant had gone silent. The man looked over Emerson's shoulder, and Emerson turned around. The sole customer, a middle-aged man just finishing his slice of triple berry, was staring openly at the spectacle unfolding between the PI and the pie-maker. The blonde woman, who had not yet even returned to her seat at the counter, was staring also, but not without a distinct concern in her features.

"Um, I'd like to apologize for the disturbance, sir," the aproned man said in a sort-of-but-not-so-much-confident voice, addressing the customer. Along with a simultaneous shrug, nod, and vague wave directed at the woman—a bewildering combination which Emerson suspected made as little sense as it appeared to—he ducked back into the kitchen.

He started pulling a divider out to cover the wide open space that allowed communication between the counter and the kitchen, being careful not to turn back towards Emerson. The PI knew it wouldn't make the room soundproof by any means, but it might do something to preserve this man's reputation, which Emerson suspected wasn't that widespread as was.

He was sure that if the exit into the alley where he had first seen this man had been clear, he would have tried to duck out of the shop entirely. So he had planted himself firmly in front of it. When the room was as secure as it was going to get and the pie-maker was again facing him, he displayed his badge to him. "Emerson Cod, Private Investigator."

And he suddenly realized that this man was terrified. He was _shaking_ , and his skin had gone white. He was rubbing his arms in a constant motion that kept his lanky body contained and the shakes to a minimum, but he couldn't hide them entirely.

"What you so afraid of?"

"I—I don't know what you think you saw, but… I d-didn't do anything wrong."

Emerson smiled amiably. "I'm not sure _what_ I saw," and here the smile abruptly shifted into a severe expression, "but I saw _something_ and you're going to shed some light on the matter."

The pie-maker pursed his lips, looking uncertain.

"I've got police coming to collect the body as we speak, so you might wanna hurry it up."

A look of terror came over the man's face. "Don't—"

"You ain't in any trouble, so quit your quivering and just tell me what the hell happened before I get _real_ impatient."

"I've never told anyone."

"You're gonna tell me."

"I—I can't."

"You can and you will. That guy should have been dead after that fall and he wasn't and you touched him and then he was. So what the hell?"

"He—I—" and the pie-maker groaned hopelessly and put his head in his hands, if only for a moment. "It's _very_ hard to explain."

Emerson folded his hands, and waited.

"Fine. He did die when he landed but when he touched me he came back to life because that's what happens. I… Another touch puts the alive-again back to a… back… dead." He rubbed his head nervously. "I had to 'cause there's a time limit or there are… consequences. I don't know why but I've been able to do it since I was a kid."

Emerson stared. And broke out into a grin. "I knew it."

The man was staring now. "You _knew_ it?"

"You gonna have to show me with somethin' else. My line of work has me practically swimmin' in cadavers, so that won't be much of a problem. Probably gonna have to get you some swimming lessons though."

He realized the man was staring at his face, searching for traces of jocularity. "You actually… believe me?"

"I believe what I see." So many possibilities were running through his mind. He blinked, putting them to a stop for a moment of clarification. "Well no, it's not that simple, but… you didn't know I was watchin,' you feel me?"

The man seemed to realize this made sense. He was still looking ready to wet himself though.

"Look," Emerson said, caught between disgust and pity, "I said I ain't gonna hurt you, I ain't gonna call anyone. I got no affiliates, I'm a private investigator. You ain't broke no laws, as far as I know. Nothin' to be afraid of, right?"

He swallowed, but Emerson could tell the words were registering. He was calming down, just a touch. "W-What exactly do you want? Money? I don't have much. I run a pie shop."

"Naw, look—"

"It's not even a pie shop that a lot of people like."

"Quit your babblin'." Emerson was getting excited. "Don't you see the possibilities? The things a man could do with a power like that—"

"I prefer a simple life," the pie-maker interjected, looking nervous, but Emerson raised his eyebrows in respect, acknowledging that he'd finally gathered the courage to mindfully interrupt him.

"I can see that. Fine. But I'm an investigator. I come across so many dead bodies and I wish they could open them traps of theirs and tell me who done it. It'd make my job a lot easier."

His eyes were widening slowly. "You're joking."

Emerson stared at him scathingly.

"…Not joking. Right." He raised his hand to his forehead. "Gimme a minute."

Emerson continued to watch him. The man's gaze went to the floor. He rubbed the back of his head, walked in an unnecessarily circuitous route around the island to lean against the counter next to the oven. He was breathing heavily, the up and down motion of his shoulders very obvious. Color still wasn't returning to him.

Emerson remembered what he'd said earlier. "I ain't really the first person you've told, am I?"

The man closed his eyes and nodded once, decisively.

"Your girlfriend don't know?" The man was young, and fairly attractive—much more so than Emerson had been at that age.

But he shook his head, raising it briefly to meet Emerson's eyes this time. "Don't have one."

Emerson raised an eyebrow. "Your best friend?"

He chuckled lightly, and after a moment said, "Don't have one of those either."

Well this was just sad. "Your momma? You said you had it since you was a kid."

The man's features froze. He raised his head again and this time made prolonged but unthinking eye contact.

After an uncomfortable moment, Emerson clapped his big hands together. "Right, got it, nobody knows but me. Lips sealed, cross my heart and hope to die." Sarcasm automatically seeped into his tone. Reflex. The pie-maker looked at him uncertainly. "I don't got a girl or best friend 'neither," he said, adopting a more genuine tone. "Anyway, I'm a private investigator. I can keep a secret like nobody's business."

For the first time the man's shoulders seemed to relax a little. He closed his eyes, opened them, wiped some of the sweat from his thick bushy brows, and finally said, "What kind of deal were you picturing?"

Emerson grinned. "Oh, I got somethin' in mind. First things first though—I never did catch your name."

The man seemed to hesitate, as if still unwilling to give out any information or form any kind of connection. But after a moment, he said only, "Ned."

No last name. Huh. Emerson supposed they'd get to that point eventually.


End file.
